“Ay, ’fore he gets a drenching with the hop-wash,” said Joey. “Here! hi! soger! Why, he’s got a bottle in his fist here still. It’s—”
The man, who had bent down low and drawn aside the verdant veil of hop-bine, started back in alarm; for, as the sunshine was let in, a couple of large vipers, which had been nestling close up to the figure, raised their heads and began to crawl away.
“Look at the nedders!” cried Smiler. “Aren’t stung him, have they?”
“Nay,” cried Joey, hanging back, “that arn’t all. ’Tarn’t a bottle he’s got; it’s a pistol!”
Two of the men turned as if to run away, but at that moment another bucket-bearer came up, and there was a shout from up by the fire to know why the spraying had stopped.
“Hi!—all on yer! Coome here!” yelled Smiler.
“What’s he been shootin’?” cried one of the men who had turned to go.
“Hissen,” growled Joey, with a horrified look. “He’s a dead un, lads, and been here for days.”
Mastering the feeling of shrinking which had come over him, Joey went down upon one knee, amidst the awful silence which prevailed, and stretched forth a hand to draw the figure out into a patch of sunlight, but a shout in chorus from his companions made him snatch back his hand with a violent start.
“Yah!—don’t touch him,” they all cried.